


Boneflower

by Yuki1014o



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Brief Gore, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Romantic Comedy, because it's FEITAN, but...badly, courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26779903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: “So,” Shalnark says, and searches for the right sentences. Then again—it’sFeitan, he doesn’t have to butter his words. “Why did you leave a head on my doorstep..?”“Pretty, right?” Feitan asks, and Shalnark doesn’t quite know what to say.Yes, he wants to agree, but that wouldn’tanswer his question. “’Made it for you.”“Uh,” Shalnark says.
Relationships: Feitan/Shalnark (Hunter x Hunter)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 127





	Boneflower

“Do you,” Feitan starts, then pauses, furrows his brows, “have a door?”

Shalnark blinks, once, then twice. Feitan just asked him if he has a _door_. A mistransation, maybe? That happens sometimes, although usually Shalnark can read the surrounding, put the words into context, and figure out their meaning. But the context here is that Chrollo called them for a job, and it certainly has nothing to do with _doors_.

“Like,” Shalnark draws a vague rectangle shape in the air with his arms, “a _door_? That opens into a house? That you go through to enter a living space?”

Feitan nods, looking very smug. “Without a scrap.”

Without a shred of doubt, Feitan probably means to say. Okay, alright. Does Shalnark have a door or—more specifically, a house? Kind of. He has a small apartment complex, where he stores all his data books and computers, where he sometimes tests nen abilities. It’s a hidden place, a place no one would ever find if Shalnark didn’t tell them about it.

Really, only Chrollo knows about it, because he has to know about it as the head of the spider. And he’s always careful never to intrude. Because it’s _Shalnark’s_ place, so…

“...No?” Shalnark says, and lilts his voice into something confused. He doesn’t even have to fake his puzzlement. “We’re wanderers, y’know? I stay a lot of places, but I don’t _keep_ any of them.”

Feitan’s smug look disappears a little. A beat. “Get one.”

“A door?”

“Yes.”

Okay. So Feitan _really_ wants him to have a door. “...Do you have one?”

“Got it last week,” Feitan confirms, and this has been weird so far, but now it’s just _strange_. Feitan doesn’t even have a reason to _want_ a place. He’s a true wanderer, he comes and goes and does whatever. He isn’t like Shalnark who _needs_ a place to return to, a place with no people and nothing frustrating or threatening; just himself.

“Uh,” Shalnark says.

He wants to say _no_ , wants to once again assure Feitan that he has no residence. But...this is Feitan. And Shalnark loves a lot of people, trusts a lot of people, but Feitan has somehow climbed near top of that list. Because he might be a cruel sadistic piece of work, but Shalnark can understand that, can see _beyond_ that, and Shalnark thinks he might have fallen in love, just a little bit.

(He doesn't really like to think about it, though; it makes him stupid.)

“Sorry, I lied earlier.” Feitan’s eyes narrow, Shalnark continues anyway. He’s good at lying, after all, and it isn’t often that he takes back words. “I do have a door. You...want my address?”

“Yes,” Feitan says, very seriously, “and you mine.”

“Okay,” Shalnark says, and takes out a pen and two sticky notes. His scrawls down his address on one, and _doesn’t_ dwell on how much his heart flutters when he gives it to Feitan. (It’s just anxiety, after all. Just a bit of nervousness. He just wishes the _origin_ was less complicated.)

-

There’s a head on Shalnark’s doorstep.

There’s a _head_ on Shalnark’s _doorstep_.

There should not be a head on his doorstep. He didn’t put it there. Chrollo would never put it there. So it’s Feitan, even if _everyone_ knew Shalnark’s address, it’d still _obviously_ be Feitan. There are needle thin lines of blood all over her skin that pattern into roses, and her hair has been cleaned into something silky, and her eyes are sewed open to reveal _stunning_ green irises.

Shalnark doesn’t think it’s all that pretty, but he knows Feitan well enough to know he would find this _gorgeous_.

The head’s eyes are the same shade as Shalnark’s, actually, and he doesn’t know what to make of that. Is that supposed to mean something? Maybe Feitan thinks his eyes are pretty; he did, after all, choose to make such a ‘stunning’ picture out of them. But—that’s definitely not it, and Shalnark really needs to stop being so wishful and distracted.

Perhaps it’s a threat? A passive-aggressive warning? Except that doesn't make sense, because Shalnark has done nothing to earn Feitan’s ire, and Feitan doesn’t _do_ passive-aggressive. He’s many things, but he isn’t subtle; if he was angry at Shalnark then he’d _know_ it.

Which is...a relief, but it also doesn't get Shalnark anywhere closer to figuring out why there’s a decapitated head on his doorstep.

 _Well_ , Shalnark thinks, _first this_. He wrinkles his nose a bit. He doesn't find the head _revolting_ , but it’s bothersome, and smells a nauseating kind of sweet. So he’ll try and figure out what the _hell_ is going on in Feitan’s head _after_ he’s cleaned this up.

He pauses a second, furrows his brows. Maybe Feitan wouldn’t want him to throw it out? Although he _did_ leave it on Shalnark’s doorstep. Hmm. Well—people are confusing all the time, are always contradictory. Better be safe.

Feitan picks up on the first dial. Which is—unusual, and it makes Shalnark all of a sudden hyper aware of most everything. The phone in his hands is cool, the air is a little sweet with rot, everything is kind of dry, and Shalnark kind of wants some water.

“Hey,” he says.

The line cracks with a bit of static, there’s a snap on the other end, the sound of wind. “Hey,” Feitan responds.

“So,” Shalnark says, and searches for the right sentences. Then again—it’s _Feitan_ , he doesn’t have to butter his words. “Why did you leave a head on my doorstep..?”

“Pretty, right?” Feitan asks, and Shalnark doesn’t quite know what to say. _Yes_ , he wants to agree, but that wouldn’t _answer his question_. “’Made it for you.”

“Uh,” Shalnark says, already blooming a headache, and also feeling weirdly flattered. Feitan doesn’t make ‘art’ for most people—is this supposed to mean something? “Why?”

A beat.

“Not good?” Feitan asks, and Shalnark feels _so lost_. “Okay.”

And the line goes dead.

Shalnark feels a little like screaming into his pillow. And his heart is beating way too much. He thought he was _past_ this inability to properly understand the humans around him.

 _Ah well_ , Shalnark thinks, pushing that useless frustration aside, _clean up first, then dissection._

-

A week later and Shalnark has managed to dissect exactly _nothing_. Usually Shalnark’s mind works like this: what is it? What’s the issue? Why is it an issue? Where did it come from? Is there a surrounding context? Is there someone you can acquire relevant information from? Are there any more necessary steps?

Purely technical things are easiest for him to figure out—like, ‘why isn’t this nen ability working?’ Next is situations—what are the moving parts to this equation? Last...last is people. People are hard, and complex, and usually don’t make sense, except there isn’t a thing in the _universe_ that doesn't make sense. All people make sense, it’s just a matter of figuring out _how_.

Usually, Shalnark is good at this.

Usually, Feitan isn’t standing on his doorstep offering him a cut off hand like it’s a fruit basket.

“ _What_ ,” Shalnark says, and squints at the hand.

It’s...another of Feitan’s art pieces. Patterns have been cut into the skin, and the fingers have been positioned (by wire underneath the skin, probably?) so that they’re tenderly holding _another_ eye colored jade-green.

“For you,” Feitan says, as if that explains _anything_.

“But _why_ ,” Shalnark makes a vague flappy motion with his arms. “Where did you even..?”

“Hand’s from,” Feitan pauses a second, makes a face, “ _See_ _ra_.”

Feitan struggles a bit with the pronunciation, (and gosh, that makes it so hard to focus—it is so _endearing_ to see Feitan try to speak unfamiliar sounds, just for him!) and it takes Shalnark a few moments to place the name. _Seera—_ an SS-class blacklist hunter. Okay. So apparently Feitan is giving Shalnark SS-class blacklist hunter hands now.

Shalnark feels a flick of worry. Feitan is strong, a heavy hitter, probably the troupe’s _best_ fighter, bar maybe Chrollo, but he shouldn’t be chasing after SS-class hunters on a whim. But Shalnark has always worried too much—humans are so breakable, after all.

“Congratulations,” Shalnark ends up saying, “they aren’t that easy to kill.”

Feitan looks very smug. “Unchallenging.”

Feitan is still holding it out like he wants Shalnark to take it though. He coughs a bit.

“So,” Shalnark says, and makes sure his expression is friendly, if a bit incredulous. “Why, again, did you bring me a single hand?”

Feitan narrows his eyes a bit, makes a _hnn_ sound. “You don’t want a single hand?”

Oh, and now Shalnark feels a bit bad. But—“I do not want a single hand,” he confirms.

“Hmm,” Feitan says, “okay.” And then just...walks away.

That...feels a bit foreboding.

-

Another week and Feitan shows up on his door step again, this time with a bag of hands.

A _bag of hands_.

“Excuse me?” Shalnark asks, and tries not to let his voice go too high pitched.

Feitan is wearing dark clothing, as always, but his usual trench coat and scarf have been traded out for high boots, thick pants, and what looks like six long sleeved shirts. He looks—different, and his full face is uncovered, which Shalnark hardly ever sees. Feitan has such a pretty face; with lips the color of old color-faded roses and sculpted features and eyes the silver of tempered steel.

Which is _not important_ , especially considering the clothes were probably wrecked in the process of acquiring all those _hands_.

“Not a single hand,” Feitan informs, like he’s being helpful. “All rank A and above.”

Shalnark's pretty sure he’s gonna be sick. Or like, already sick. He feel kind of nauseous. Because a whole bag of hands is a bit gross, even to Shalnark, and Feitan is going out and _soloing tens of nen-users_. And he’s doing it all for _Shalnark_ which is—(flattering, actually, and there’s a nervous clench in Shalnark’s chest that can’t entirely be contributed to—) _worrying_.

“Please stop bringing be human body parts,” Shalnark says.

Feitan stills. Frowns. “You don’t like?”

Shalnark’s complex is placed on the outskirts of a quiet city. The door exits onto a system of metal outdoor-staircases that run up the building. The sun is setting. Which is all really just to say that the light is gold and pink and beautiful on Feitan’s skin, and he looks so _disappointed_ , and it makes Shalnark so weak.

But—Shalnark _must_ be firm about this. “I...appreciate the effort, and I’m flattered, really, but please stop hunting down nen users and bringing them to me.”

A beat. Feitan looks briefly frustrated, then thoughtful, then he nods. “Okay.”

Shalnark...feels like he’s missed something.

-

Two weeks later and Feitan is on his doorstep, _again_ , with a nasty cut across his cheek and the head of a Great White Stag.

Feitan is—visibly hurt. That makes sense, Shalnark notes, almost absently. Feitan’s used to fighting against humans, and Great White Stags dwell in arctic temperatures which Feitan has _always_ been weak against. And that kind of beast—they’re _nen_ beasts, intelligent and brutal, and _Feitan is hurt, Feitan is hurt, Feitan is hurt_.

Shalnark’s door handle breaks beneath his fingers.

 _Not that deep_ , Shalnark critically observes, _an easy fix, assuming there’s nothing else_.

He’s—not irrational, not quite, because Shalnark has always been a logical person, but he gets so _attached_ to the people around him, and that makes him worry, makes him _emotional_. And he’s already been so frustrated for the past couple weeks, because Feitan has been doing stupid and incomprehensible things, and it’s set him on a knifes edge.

This, he supposes, must be his tipping point. Ah. Well. It could be worse. He’s tipped worse than this before.

“Sit _down_ ,” he says, voice a little icy, though he doesn’t mean it to come out that way.

Feitan huffs up. “What.”

Shalnark smiles (although he can’t quite make his eyes crinkle up the right way. Hmm. He’ll need to work on that.) Humans do, after all, feel more at ease with a smile. “There’s a cut across your cheek,” he informs, voice perfectly friendly. “I’m going to wrap it, alright?”

Although it isn’t really a question. Still, Feitan _does_ like his personal space. Giving the illusion of choice costs nothing.

“…Okay,” Feitan says, and Shalnark smiles wider—a little more genuine, now. The reminder that he’s one of the only people in the whole _world_ that Feitan would allow to treat a non-critical injury is nice, after all.

“Come in,” Shalnark says, and Feitan glances at the Great White Stag head that’s still clutched in his hands. “Leave that out,” Shalnark says.

Feitan kind of—wilts. Weird. But he still comes in and lets Shalnark bandage him which is good. Shalnark doesn’t need more frustration.

He...still doesn't know what to do, though. He still doesn't know what’s even _happening_. Feitan is still in his apartment, drinking Shalnark’s tea and looking relaxed, and it makes Shalnark’s heart beat a bit fast, breath come a bit light, chest go a bit fluttery; it makes him _stupid_.

Feitan makes him stupid, he knows this.

The people that can possibly help Shalnark with this can be counted on one hand. Less than one hand, actually. Uvo can help Shalnark with most things, but he doesn't know Feitan all that well, so. Phinks knows Feitan well, but doesn’t possess the eloquence for logical thinking.

So really, all that leaves is Chrollo.

-

Shalnark finds Chrollo in a library. It’s an old place, with dusty floors and the smell of old parchment. It isn’t abandoned, not quite, but is obscure and hard to find. _Ex Bibliotheca Scientiam_ ; the Archive of Knowledge. They’re the only ones here, right now.

Chrollo tilts his head at Shalnark, gray eyes gleaming softly in the burnt yellow lamp light. He smiles a little. “Is there something you need?”

Shalnark smiles back. “There’s something I want,” because he knows _want_ is something that Chrollo understands, perhaps more than much else.

“Oh?” Chrollo asks, setting his book to the side and properly meeting Shalnark’s gaze.

“I need information,” Shalnark says, feeling inexplicably nervous, “I can’t figure something out.”

Chrollo actually raises a brow at that. “How usual. ”

“Feitan’s been acting weird,” Shalnark says, “he keeps bringing body parts to my apartment, and honestly, if this keeps up neighbors will probably start getting suspicious. Only so much needles and forgery can do, after all.”

Chrollo taps his fingers against a book, thins his lips a little. “Body parts..? Was he acting strange before that?”

“Two of his ‘art pieces’ from nen users. Then a bag of hands, Chrollo, a _bag of hands_ ,” and Shalnark all of a sudden feels a bit choked—Chrollo is good at that, at making people feel like they can spill their hearts to him. “Then I said no more nen users and he went and brought me the head of a _Great White Stag_ , and he got _hurt_.”

“Hmm,” Chrollo hums, tilting his head, lamplight shifting softly over his skin, “and _before_ that? I asked a question, Shalnark.”

Did he? Oh. He did. That’s—well. Shalnark already knows that his head isn’t working right when it comes to this, though. “He asked me if I had a door. It felt like a mistranslation, but not really? Feitan was very set on me having a _door_. Specifically. It was weird."

Then—then something shifts in Chrollo’s expression. His lips tilt up, and his eyes relax, and he kind of looks like he’s silently laughing. “Really? A door? As in: an entrance to your residence, a gateway to your most personal life?”

“...Yes?” Shalnark asks, and that sounds very similar to what Feitan agreed. And it also sounds familiar from...somewhere.

“And then he started bringing you gifts?” Chrollo asks, looking like he already knows. “Things he thinks are pretty and would’ve been difficult to obtain?”

“Yeah.”

Chrollo actually does laugh this time, it’s a quiet, soft, airy thing. But it’s definitely a laugh. Should he be offended?

“Sorry sorry,” Chrollo says, small twinkle in his eyes, “I’ll talk to him. I’m sure this will be...resolved.”

Shalnark leaves just as confused as he entered.

-

Another few days and Feitan is on his doorstep, again, with time with a bouquet of flowers.

Feitan looks a bit disgruntled, but holds up the bouquet with something like determination. It’s made of boneflowers, with blood-red petals and lapis-blue leaves and a bone-white stem. It’s a polarizing flower; walking the line between gorgeous and gorey. Its also extraordinarily dangerous to acquire and famously poisonous.

Shalnark blinks, and something clicks into place.

Feitan is on his doorstep. With _flowers_.

 _What_.

That—makes sense, if he looks at it that way, Shalnark realizes. The door thing—a threshold between Shalnark’s personal life and the whole world outside of it. The _body part_ thing.

He—

He hadn’t considered it this way. Or perhaps this is another bit of wishful thinking? Feitan is _asexual_ , doesn't that usually come with aromantic? He’s already resigned himself to this; Feitan is a good friend, they can just stay good friends. Shalnark is good at adapting, molds himself to any number of situations, and he’d thought—

But getting his hopes up is something useless.

He tries to say: _w_ _hat are you doing, what do you mean?_ But the breath catches in his lungs, and his words stick to his tongue. That isn’t right. he’s _good_ with words.

Feitan shifts a little, flickers his eyes off to the side. And Shalnark needs to _speak—“_ Have you been courting me?” He ends up blurting.

Feitan kind of just stares. “Obviously.”

 _Oh_.

And then—then all of Shalnark’s chest bursts into bloom, and there’s a flutter in his fingers, a shallowness to the air. If he looks closely, Feitan’s ears are red. That’s just _adorable_.

“Oh,” Shalnark says, throat feeling tight, eyes feeling a bit strange. He wants to cry. “Come in?”

**Author's Note:**

> kugngkfyug. I don’t knew when, why, or how I started to ship this. I just did. I also didn’t edit. Sorry.
> 
> I’ll be honest I started to lose a bit of motivation in the last thousand words, but I hope it doesn’t show? I hope this was enjoyable. This fandom could use more feishal. If you enjoyed, please don’t hesitiate to leave a comment. I always enjoy feedback, and constructive criticism is welcome, so don’t be shy! :)


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